


Amortentia

by unspeakable3



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Amortentia, Black Family-centric (Harry Potter), F/M, Feelings Realization, Hogwarts Sixth Year, POV Regulus Black, Potions Class (Harry Potter), Regulus Black Feels, Regulus Black-centric, Slice of Life, The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, Wordcount: 1.000-3.000, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000, Wordcount: Over 1.000, Wordcount: Under 10.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-09-24 04:58:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20352772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unspeakable3/pseuds/unspeakable3
Summary: Amortentia was the most potent love potion in existence. Did Slughorn really think it was a good idea to have a classroom of hormone-addled sixteen year olds learn how to brew it?





	Amortentia

**Author's Note:**

> (contains brief mentions of OCs who appear in my other works)

Regulus was still feeling groggy as the sixth years entered their first NEWT-level Potions class — he always struggled to get a good night’s sleep the first week back at school after the holidays; the Slytherin dormitories, though quiet, were considerably rowdier than the deathly silence of the Black family home — and allowed Evan to guide him over to the table nearest the supply cupboard. The table, unusually, was already occupied with a large cauldron.

Evan braced his hands on the edge of the table as he leaned over to peer inside it. He sat back on his stool with a grin and nudged Regulus in the ribs with an elbow that was, quite frankly, too sharp and pointy to be allowed.

“_What?_” he snapped.

“Amortentia,” came Evan’s smug reply.

Regulus stared at him in disbelief. Amortentia was the most potent love potion in existence. Did Slughorn really think it was a good idea to have a classroom of hormone-addled sixteen year olds learn how to brew it, let alone leave a cauldron full of the stuff in plain sight where _anyone _could sneak away with a flask full?

Abruptly he stood up, his stool scraping on the flagstone floor, and took a look for himself. It was certainly Amortentia: there could be no mistaking the spiralling steam rising from the cauldron and the pearlescent liquid inside, softly rippling in a non-existent breeze.

“What can you smell, Reg?”

He did _not _appreciate Evan’s teasing tone. And he would not be telling him, or anyone else for that matter, that the potion — which held a different aroma for each wizard, depending on what they found attractive — smelled like violets and honey and ink. Whatever that meant.

“_I _can smell cedarwood and broomstick polish.”

Regulus had to hold himself back from rolling his eyes as Aurelia Nott gazed at him through the potion’s steam in what he supposed was meant to be a suggestive manner and made a mental note to never wear that cedarwood cologne his cousin Cissa had bought him last Christmas ever again.

After they had settled down Professor Slughorn called on Regulus — as he had suspected he would — to describe how the Amortentia smelled to him. He crafted a lie about parchment and strawberry tart and pretended not to notice the frown line that developed between Aurelia's brows.

“So what did you _really _smell?” Evan asked in a low voice as they packed their bags at the end of the class.

“Parchment and strawberry tart.”

“Come on, Reg, you obviously just made that up to irritate Aurelia. Everyone knows she’s allergic to strawberries,” Evan sighed, holding the classroom door open for Regulus. “I smelled frogspawn.”

Regulus paused and raised an eyebrow at his friend.

“Lorelei _accidentally _threw some at me when I cornered her in the Apothecary over the summer.”

“She’s a Gryffindor,” Regulus frowned.

“So? She’s hot. I want to shag her, not marry her.”

Regulus concealed a shudder and hurried onwards to his next class.

He spent most of History of Magic pondering the violets and honey and ink of his Amortentia and wondering what they could mean. He had encountered Amortentia twice before in his life, and each one had been different.

The first time he had been eight years old. Father, after much fuss on Sirius’s behalf, had allowed both brothers to accompany him on a trip to the Ministry. Regulus still wasn’t entirely sure why his elder brother had been so keen to go since Father only ever went to engage in things that Sirius found deathly dull. Perhaps he had just wanted to escape Mother’s scrutinising glare for an hour or two.

Regardless, one of the Unspeakables — no doubt hoping that Orion Black would make a sizeable donation to his research fund if he made a good enough impression — had offered to give the children a brief tour of the Department of Mysteries.

Sirius had begged and Father had relented, probably more because he couldn’t stand the sight of his heir debasing himself in such a manner than because he thought it might be an interesting activity for his sons. Father left them with the Unspeakable (what had his name been? Rockford?) while he ventured upstairs to meet with the Minister.

As they arrived at the “Love Chamber” Sirius had screwed up his nose in distaste but Regulus had found himself entranced by the enormous golden fountain carved with playful fluttering cherubs and singing Sirens with harps and pearlescent wings. He had thought it to be the Fountain of Fair Fortune from his storybooks come to life, but Rockford or whatever-his-name-was had declared the shimmering liquid within to be Amortentia.

Sirius had already wandered off to bother a witch with her elbows deep in a cauldron filled with what looked suspiciously like blood, so Regulus dared to take a tentative step closer to the fountain. He gave a little jump of fright when one of the golden cherubs beckoned him closer then flew back to its friends, giggling. But curiosity won over his nerves, and Regulus reached out a hand and watched as the Amortentia splashed over his fingers and coated them in a shiny residue that blinked pink and gold in the warm candlelight of the Love Chamber.

The Amortentia had smelled like summer rain and chicken broth then, but it was only now that Regulus realised that they were smells that he had associated with comfort: the warming soup that Kreacher would bring him whenever he was ill, and Sirius. Each time there had been a thunderstorm a terrified Regulus would sneak across the landing into his brother’s bed and afterwards, Sirius would fling his bedroom window open and they would fill their lungs with that delicious fresh after-rain smell.

The second time had been a few years later, in Knockturn Alley. Mother and Aunt Druella were taking _forever _to complete their shopping — why they insisted on purchasing makeup from a hag who resembled a rotting Quidditch boot, he had no idea — and Regulus, growing bored, had resorted to perusing the stalls that lined the opposite side of the cobbled street.

There was a mildly disturbing wizard there who always wore his cloak covering his face but sold the most interesting books about obscure runic translations that Regulus could spend hours perusing, but to his dismay a witch had grabbed his arm with a deceptively strong hand and pulled him towards her stall instead.

“_Love Potions_,” she had whispered, and spread her hand over her wares in a way that he supposed would probably have been quite impressive to any young teenage wizard who _hadn’t _set foot inside the Love Chamber itself. There were some garish heart-shaped bottles with pink and red velvet ribbons tied around them, and other more discrete vials made from tinted glass to obscure the potion within.

“I can see you are a discerning young wizard,” the witch continued, apparently not dismayed by his lack of interest. “Perhaps a dose of Amortentia, the most powerful love potion known to wizardkind? You would be able to seduce any witch of your choosing…”

“I don’t think—” Regulus began, but she cut him off by unstoppering a flask and wafting it under his nose.

“You will smell whatever you are most attracted to,” she smiled, and the glint in her eye was quite alarming. “Perhaps a perfume?”

“Musty carpets and damp earth,” he replied, disconcerted.

The witch looked surprised for a brief moment, and was about to say something when Mother and Aunt Druella finally emerged. Mother, embarrassingly, berated the witch for attempting to misguide her poor innocent son while Aunt Druella dragged him up the street in the _opposite _direction of that wizard with the interesting books.

Those smells had puzzled him for a long time, but Regulus realised that they were the scents of escape: the musty carriages of the Hogwarts Express that took him far away from his suffocating home and the rain-soaked Quidditch pitch that granted him the freedom to fly as high and as far as he liked, that made him forget everything but the wind in his hair and the hunt for the Snitch.

But violets, honey, and ink?

He didn’t work that one out until the next morning when she sat down beside him at breakfast, as she had every morning since first year, with hands that were somehow already covered in spilled ink and leaned across him to reach for the teapot. Regulus found himself entirely unable to pay attention to her chattering as the scent of her perfume — violets and citrus — wafted over him.

“Well, Reggie?”

He blinked and forced himself to tear his eyes away from her delicate hand, stirring a spoonful of honey into her teacup, and meet her questioning gaze. His heart was hammering because this was terrifying (he could _never!_) and she was terrifying (they were just _friends!_) and if _anyone_ ever found out about this — let alone if _she _did — he would just _die_.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice strained. “What did you say, Clementine?”


End file.
